


The Flame Alchemist, the Traitor Lieutenant, and the Great Prank War of 1913

by FlyinBanachab



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, F/M, Give Catalina More Screen Time You Cowards, No animals were harmed in the writing of this fic, Not Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyinBanachab/pseuds/FlyinBanachab
Summary: “I don’t have time for your idiocy today, Hughes! Don’t you have someone else to bother?”“Geez Roy,” Hughes pouts. “What crawled up your ass and died?”Through a world-weary sigh, Breda explains, “Hawkeye’s got a date tonight.”Hughes gasps, looking absolutely crestfallen. “What? Oh no! You see what I told you, Roy, if you don’t make a move someone else will. Beautiful girl like that, she’s not gonna wait around forever–”Mustang’s cheek twitches. “Shut UP, Hughes,” he says through gritted teeth. You well know the lieutenant and I are. Colleagues. And nothing more. She’s free to date whoever she wants. I’m… Happy. For. Her.“Four subordinates exchange skeptical looks.---A spiritual successor to "The Flame Alchemist, the Bachelor Lieutenant, and the Mystery of Warehouse 13," written for FMA BigBang 2020.
Relationships: Maes Hughes & Team Mustang, Rebecca Catalina & Riza Hawkeye, Rebecca Catalina/Jean Havoc, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 8
Kudos: 88
Collections: FMA Big Bang 2020





	The Flame Alchemist, the Traitor Lieutenant, and the Great Prank War of 1913

**EASTERN COMMAND  
** **SPRING 1913**

The office of Colonel Roy Mustang usually fills up in the same order every morning: always first is First Lieutenant Hawkeye, perfectly put together and ready to take on the day; a few minutes later, Warrant Officer Falman and Master Sergeant Fuery, walking together with warm smiles; next, Second Lieutenant Havoc, sauntering in with a half-smoked cigarette; then Second Lieutenant Breda, breakfast and coffee in hand; and finally, eventually, the colonel himself.

But today, Falman is the one to unlock the doors, and even by the time Breda's finished his sandwich, there's still no sign of Hawkeye. The soldiers are starting to exchange uneasy looks.

"You think she's okay?" Fuery asks what they're all thinking. "Should we..."

Just as he's about to propose checking on her, the heavy door swings open and in she walks, same as every day, except that she's carrying a bag over one shoulder.

"Good morning, soldiers," she greets them, calm and unflappable as usual, not acknowledging her relative lateness in any way.

"Morning, sir," they reply in unison. 

Breda raises his eyebrows at Havoc, communicating wordlessly: _Ask her why she’s late._

Havoc’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. _Are you crazy?_

Falman and Fuery nod encouragingly. _Do it! We’re dying to know and she likes you best._

Havoc scowls at them and turns to Hawkeye. Pointing with his cigarette to the mystery bag, he adopts an overly casual tone: "So, uh,... going somewhere?" 

The merest suggestion of a smile ghosts across the first lieutenant's face. "If you must know," she sits down and pulls the top document from her inbox, "I have a date tonight, and I don't have time to go home to get ready."

All activity in the office slams to a halt. Every head swivels around to stare at her, mouth agape. A pen clatters to the floor and its echo reverberates deafeningly.

Hawkeye ignores them all and continues reading the agenda for the morning briefing. 

But Falman can't let this rest. He leans across his desk with a big dopey grin on his face. "Sir-- you're kidding! That's amazing! Took him long enough. How'd he ask you? When'd he ask you? We need details!" 

The ghost of another expression plays across her face, but her voice is as calm and professional as ever. She looks up with her eyes only and replies, "I'm not sure what you mean, Officer. This is a blind date."

Falman jerks back as if shot. 

Fuery audibly gasps. 

Havoc raises his eyebrows but smiles.

Breda rolls his eyes to the ceiling and visibly stifles a groan.

Hawkeye opens the next file folder.

"A-- a blind date?" Falman stammers. "Not--?" _Not with the Colonel_? He doesn't have the guts to finish the sentence out loud.

She nods with a tight-lipped smile. "A double date, actually. Lieutenant Catalina set it all up."

Falman's face clouds over. "Traitor," he mutters.

"What was that?" Her words are sharp enough to draw blood.

Falman shrinks back in his seat. "N-nothing, sir. Have a good time." 

"Thank you, Falman."

Havoc leans in. "Well _I_ think it's great. Good for Becca! You deserve to get out and let your hair down every once in a while."

At this, Hawkeye sighs. "It really is remarkable how I seem to be the only person in this office with work to do."

Just then the office door whomps shut. Five heads turn to see their commander, the Flame Alchemist, breezing into the room. Four heads immediately bury themselves in their paperwork.

"Oh, sounds like I missed something good. You have plans tonight, Hawkeye?" He asks cheerily.

"Yes sir." She says. She holds his gaze for a long, silent beat, then looks back down to the open file on her desk.

“Oh, now that’s not fair!” His tone is playful, unsuspecting. “Everyone else already knows. Come on, out with it!”

She doesn't look up. "It's nothing that affects my work, sir."

Mustang clearly still thinks they’re flirting. He leans in with a smirk. "I could order you to tell me." 

She sighs, pushes her chair back, turns to face him resignedly. "I have a date tonight. Sir."

Her words literally bowl him over. He stumbles back against his desk as shock sweeps across his face.

"A-- a date?! But you-- I-- you can't--" he sputters for a moment before finally regaining some control. He stands up straight and clears his throat. "So who's the lucky man?"

"No one you know, sir."

"It’s a double date with Catalina!" Falman interjects in what can only be described as a "tattle-tail voice." Mustang and Hawkeye both glare daggers at him and the officer slumps down into his seat, cheeks red. 

Mustang looks fractionally less distressed, though.

"Oh, so this is just a favor to Catalina, then?" He asks, unmistakably hopeful.

"If you say so, sir."

The fraction of distress returns as a clenched jaw. "Well." He manages after a moment. "Have. Fun. Then."

"Yes, sir."

Hawkeye picks up her pen and jots some notes on the file in front of her. Mustang stands stunned in front of his desk for a long moment, then walks around to sit down. He pauses halfway down, straightens up again, walks back to the front of his desk, pauses, turns and walks to the window and just stares out at the city in silence.

The room fills with the sounds of awkwardly shuffled papers. 

Suddenly, Mustang whirls around and points at her. "Hawkeye! I need you to go-- get me-- cufflinks!”

“Cufflinks, sir?” Her tone of voice added _are you serious?_

“Yeah. I've got a meeting with the general today and I wore the wrong cufflinks, you know what he’s like, I have to wear the silver seal or I’ll never hear the end of it. I’d go myself but, haha, I’m booked solid all morning! They're on my dresser, somewhere. Go, now! Hurry!" And flings his keys at her. 

She catches them in her left hand and stands stiffly; Hawkeye knows better than anyone what meetings Roy Mustang does and does not have today. But all she says is "yes, sir," as she walks out of the room with clipped little steps.

The door bangs shut behind her.

A moment passes before Mustang claps his hands sharply, startling his subordinates. “Okay,--” 

But he is interrupted by the door swinging open again. He stops, expecting to see Hawkeye again, but is greeted instead by the grinning form of one Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, who is for some reason not in his office halfway across the country. Mustang frowns at him.

"Yo, Roy!" Undeterred, Hughes strides into the room. He does pause, though, when he reaches Breda's desk.

"Lieutenant." Hughes regards Breda with narrowed eyes.

"Lieutenant Colonel." Breda returns his greeting in kind. They stare at each other unblinking for several seconds, until finally Mustang cuts them off.

"What are you doing here, Hughes?"

This snaps them out of their staring contest and Hughes reverts to his normal ebullient self. "Oh, you know how it is, just business as usual, doing some casework here for a week or two..." 

"What was that about?" Fuery whispers to Falman, eyes wide.

"Oh, you weren’t around for the start, were you? Breda and Hughes have been locked in a prank war for months now. It all started when Breda accidentally beaned Hughes with a ball meant for Havoc. Hughes glared and said 'you know, this means war,' and Breda laughed, but, the next day he came in and opened his desk drawer and POW! A glitter bomb went off, and when it settled there was a picture of Elicia bobbing on a spring. And it's been escalating ever since, any time they're in the same city." 

Fuery grimaces. "Thanks for the warning."

Meanwhile, Hughes is digging photos out of his jacket pocket. "Just LOOK at her, Roy, can you believe she's already almost three? Isn't she just the CUTEST--"

Roy slaps his hand away. "I don't have time for your idiocy today, Hughes! Don't you have someone else to bother?"

"Geez Roy," Hughes pouts. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Through a world-weary sigh, Breda explains, "Hawkeye's got a date tonight."

Hughes gasps, looking absolutely crestfallen. "What? Oh no! You see what I told you, Roy, if you don't make a move someone else will. Beautiful girl like that, she's not gonna wait around forever--"

Mustang's cheek twitches. "Shut UP, Hughes," he says through gritted teeth. You well know the lieutenant and I are. Colleagues. And nothing more. She's free to date whoever she wants. I'm... Happy. For. Her."

Four subordinates exchange skeptical looks.

"WELL," Hughes says lightly, "I'll just come back when you're feeling less homicidal. If you need me, I'm up on the fourth floor. Ciao!" He hops off Mustang’s desk and strides out of the office, but pauses with one foot out the door to turn around and yell: "Hey, is it anyone I know?"

Mustang raises his right hand in a gesture that could become either a snap or a raised middle finger. Hughes laughs as he ducks out the door.

As soon as the room is clear, Mustang slams his hands down on the desks at the front of the pod, shaking the whole office. His subordinates stop pretending not to look at him.

"Emergency briefing. Now!" He demands. He uses the tone that elicits an automatic "Yes sir!" from his subordinates, even if they are wary of what might be coming. 

They hop to and the team, minus Hawkeye, quickly gathers in a side conference room. Mustang stands facing the window, hands balled into fists in his pockets.

"Gentlemen. Our situation is grave. Our precious first lieutenant is in trouble."

He turns to his crew. Havoc is fidgeting with an unlit cigarette. Falman's brow is creased in worry, and poor Fuery seems on the verge of tears. Breda... Breda has found a donut and is doing his best to eat it _at_ Mustang.

“In... trouble, sir?” Havoc asks tentatively.

"You heard her. She has a d--" he stumbles on the word-- "a date tonight. We can't let this happen."

"Why not?” Asks Havoc, genuinely puzzled. “ _You_ go on dates all the time. Uh. Respectfully. Sir." 

"Why not? Why NOT?! Havoc!--" Mustang opens and closes his mouth a couple times, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Finally he says, "Because! Because, this is some random guy Rebecca CATALINA thought was a good idea! Who KNOWS what kind of danger she might be in?"

That elicits a concerned murmur from the table. Even Breda mumbles around his donut, "That is a fair point actually."

"So our first objective is clear: find out everything we can about him. That way we’ll know what we’re up against. Fuery: tap Catalina's phone. We need a name."

The sergeant's eyes widen and the color drains from his face. "Sir?"

Mustang snaps, "You can do it, can't you?"

"I-- I'll need access to her desk, for ten or fifteen minutes. But do you really think that's--"

"Good. Havoc: distract Catalina for fifteen minutes while Fuery taps her phone."

Havoc's face instantly brightens. He drawls, "Well yes sir."

Fuery whimpers. "If she catches me..."

But Mustang's moved on. "Breda:--"

Breda cuts him off: "No."

Mustang gives him a look that would render a lesser man to ash. " _Excuse_ me?"

"No, I'm not doing this." He leans in and drops his voice. "Look. Colonel. You know I'll follow you anywhere, but, speaking as the team strategist? This is the worst damn idea I’ve heard all year. Let Hawkeye go on a date in peace.”

Mustang’s face is bright red. "You're dismissed, lieutenant."

"Fine. It's your ass."

Mustang turns to the rest of the team as the door slams. "Any other objections?" His voice is strained. The remaining three men shake their heads meekly.

"Good. Then. Objective one: tap Catalina's phone and secure the identities of their dates. Then, Falman, Havoc, you'll go out and see what you can find on them. We can't let-- we can't let anything happen to her. Understood?"

"Understood, sir!" They respond with enthusiasm, snapping salutes.

Mustang nods. "Dismissed!"

# # #

Fuery wipes nervous sweat from his forehead and checks his watch. Eight minutes. Lieutenant Catalina’s phone is in pieces on her desk, and he's splicing the bug into power. Once it's live and transmitting, he just has to stuff it into the phone base and put the thing back together. Easy,... in theory. This isn't the _first_ phone he's tapped, but it's not exactly the hundredth either. 

"Ha!" He grins as the needle on the power tester jumps. Now, just put it all back--

From the other side of the door, he suddenly hears Havoc's muffled voice. It's getting louder; they're walking this way. 

_"Aw, come on, Becca! Don't be like that."_

Catalina snaps at him, her exasperation clear even through the door: _"Stop that."_

Fuery shoots a horrified look over his shoulder. THIS is your distraction tactic? 

_"Stop what?"_

_"Stop calling me Becca. Your Becca privileges have been revoked."_

_“What do I have to do to get them back?”_

_“Stop being a complete and total ass, so, don’t hold your breath.”_

_"Does this guy tonight get to call you Becca?"_

The base is reassembled. Now just plug the handset back in and get the heck out of there--

_"That is none of your FUCKING business, Jean!"_

Catalina storms into her office. Fuery's made it as far as two desks down (all empty; by some amazing stroke of luck, the rest of her team is out this morning), but she pins him in place with the ferocity of her gaze.

"What are you doing in my office, little man?"

She is _pissed_. Havoc, the rightful recipient of this ire, is conspicuously absent. Fuery swallows hard.

"L-lieutenant! Hello!"

She steps closer. Fuery flinches backward.

"We were just-- getting word of outages, I-- came to see if the phones in here were affected-- are you h--"

Catalina snaps, “You really expect me to believe that? I think we both know why you’re really here.”

Fuery goes pale as a ghost, but remembers his interrogation training: don’t give them anything for free. “S-sir?” 

“Just like Jean. You’re here to try and convince me to cancel tonight. God, I TOLD her not to say anything. This is going to be my whole fucking day now, isn’t it.”

Fuery, rather than try and stammer out a lie, looks at the floor in silence.

“Get out.” It’s an order. “And tell the rest of your team to stay the hell away from me today.”

“Y-yes sir,” Fuery says to the floor, and books it out into the hall. Havoc is nowhere to be seen.

# # #

Fuery stumbles back into the office and slumps against the back of the door, breathing a deep sigh of relief. Havoc, he discovers, is sitting nonchalantly at his desk, and Fuery shoots him a scowl. Mustang looks at Fuery impatiently.

“So?”

“Mission successful, sir,” he says, a little shakily.

Mustang nods sharply. This was, after all, the only acceptable outcome. “Well then. Get to your station and start monitoring her calls.”

Fuery straightens up and snaps a salute. No rest for the weary. “Yes sir!” He hops to his desk, pulls his headset on, tunes in--but finds only static. She’s not on the phone right now. The odds of getting useful information this way is really pretty slim, but, short of actually pressing Hawkeye for the details, it was probably their best chance.

Now that he’s had a chance to catch his breath, he notices Breda. Breda’s desk is topped by two platters, one piled high with some sort of macaron-like cookie. As Fuery watches, Breda picks one up, carefully twists it open, and methodically scrapes the filling into a garbage can at his feet. Then he picks up a tube and squirts a very similar-looking white paste onto the cookie, twists its top back on, and places it on the second tray. He picks up another cookie and begins to repeat the process.

“Uh, lieutenant?” Fuery ventures. 

Breda smirks. He’s been waiting for someone to ask. “If you jokers aren’t working today, neither am I. Hughes won’t be in town for long and I owe him for the--” he grimaces-- “turtles.” 

He squirts another layer of paste onto a cookie and explains, “Odorless fish paste.” Screwing the sandwich back together and placing it on the plate, he plucks a small card off the desk and passes it to Fuery. “And the cherry on top. It’s a perfect match for her handwriting.” Fuery opens it to see scrawled in crayon, “LOV3, 3LICIA.”

“Devious, sir.” Fuery hands the card back to him. “But won’t he be suspicious of anything you give him?”

Breda nods. “Oh certainly. He’s smarter than he looks. That’s why I’m going to send these up through Private Solow.”

“Who?”

“New transfer out front. Gonna hand her the plate, say the bakery delivered it down here by mistake, would you mind running it up to Hughes?” 

Fuery raised his eyebrows and repeated, with a little more awe this time, “Devious, sir.” 

Just then his headset crackles to life. “Catalina,” her voice says in his ear. 

“Oh!” he starts, turning around to focus.

# # #

Riza jabs and wiggles the worn key into the old lock of the apartment building's front entrance. After a few seconds' finagling, it finally gives, and she steps into the small foyer. Her shoes click against the tiles and echo off the tired yellow walls. She's run errands like this a few times before--though never such a transparent excuse to get her out of the office--so she's familiar with the building. Up two creaky flights of narrow stairs, third creaky door on the right, jiggle THIS key into THIS lock, shoulder it open on humid days. She shakes her head; he’s left the transom open again.

Roy’s living room shows no improvement since her last visit: the only furniture is the same worn-out sofa against the wall, accompanied by one shadeless table lamp on the floor. The rest of the small space is dotted with stacks of books and newspapers and empty coffee mugs. Turning on the lamp gives her just enough light to navigate safely, so Riza pushes the rod to close the transom and makes her way back to the bedroom. 

There’s a real window in here, letting rays of morning sun illuminate the chaos. The bed in the corner is emphatically unmade, gray duvet shoved aside and left to its lumpy fate. Scarves hang haphazardly around the worn bedposts. A shirt’s been thrown over the top of the open wardrobe door. The valet holds a suit, so she glances at the tray on the off chance--no, no cufflinks there, just some spare change. Well, he did say they’d be on the dresser.

Amid the scattered detritus atop the dresser sits a jewelry box. She flips the lid open: a couple rings, a plain brass pocket watch, tie tacks, lapel pins, and several pairs of cufflinks. Riza rolls her eyes as she sifts through things. Roy Mustang may be careless about a lot of things, but his attire is not one of them; he’s never left the house wearing the wrong pair of cufflinks in his life. Why bother with such a flimsy pretense? Who would it possibly fool? The men? Certainly not her. And what, exactly, were they doing in her absence? Obviously it’s about her date tonight, but what-- well, whatever it is, she just hopes they don’t embarrass themselves too badly. She imagines Roy begging Rebecca to cancel their plans and actually laughs out loud.

None of the cufflinks in the box match Roy’s description. Of course. Does she bother searching the rest of the apartment?

As she moves to close the lid on the box, something catches her eye that makes her pause. Oh--this jewelry box has a false bottom.

And normally she would have just closed the lid and continued with her day. But he was prying into her personal life at this very moment, wasn’t he? It’s only fair. Besides, didn’t she know all his secrets already? She lifts out the tray.

It's... it can't be anything else. It's one of her old barrettes. From when she was first growing her hair out. Riza picks it up, turns it over in her palm. She remembered agonizing over what to buy, and then being so annoyed when this one couldn’t handle the rigors of military life. It's chipped on the right side, and the clip won't seat. Definitely, absolutely hers. She’d thrown it in the garbage and spent the rest of the day with her hair in her face. She turns the barette over in her palm one more time before carefully setting it back in the box.

# # #

"Oh! I think it's him!" Fuery places his left hand over his earphone, listening intently. After a moment his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush bright pink. 

“Definitely him,” he says in a very small voice. He sits frozen for several minutes, listening in complete mortification, until Mustang taps him on the shoulder. Fuery slides the cans down around his neck and looks up with wide eyes. 

"Anything?" Mustang demands.

"Nothing... relevant, sir."

"No? So what are they saying?"

"I... really, really can't repeat any of this, sir." 

"That so?" Mustang yanks the headphones off Fuery and holds one up to his ear. After a few words he blanches and hands them back. "Gross. Carry on."

Fuery sighs and pulls the headset back over his ears. Mustang paces up and down the length of the office until the phone on his desk starts ringing.

“Mustang.” A pause as he listens to the person on the other line. “Oh, really? That’s odd... no, no, there’s nowhere else they’d be... What? No I’m not wearing them right now! Yes I’m sure!” He does not look at his cufflinks as he says this. “Lieu-- no, don’t. If they’re not in that box, I’ve lost them. You’ll have to go to Crawford’s and buy a new pair. Yes, Crawford’s.” A long pause now. Crawford’s, while yes, the pinnacle of men’s fashion in East City, was clear across town from Mustang’s apartment.

“Okay then,” he finally says, tensely. “Good. Goodbye.” And hangs up the phone. 

Simultaneously, Fuery rips his headphones off with a huge sigh. "Robin," he says wearily. "Robin and Leo. Reservations at Clover at 7."

"Clover?" Breda looks up from a magazine in surprise.

"You know the place?" Mustang demands. 

Breda's face hardens, remembering his resolve. "No. Never heard of it." And pointedly looks back down at the magazine, but no way Mustang's gonna drop it now.

"Out with it, Breda!"

He sighs. "It's a restaurant."

"AND."

“A bar.”

“AND.”

"Nothing." But Mustang's eyes bore holes into his skull and eventually he relents. "It's... seedy. Thought Catalina had more class, is all."

"Seedy." Mustang's eyes narrow. "No last names, Fuery?"

Fuery's busy dialing the phone. "Two minutes, sir," he says, in a tone that says _let me do my job_. "Good morning, yes," suddenly all smooth and professional into the handset, "my assistant says she booked a reservation tonight but couldn't remember if she gave you the right time. It could be under Robin, or maybe Leo, for 7 or 8, party of 4-- oh, yep, that's me! No, seven's perfect. Thanks so much, see you tonight!" He hangs up the phone and flashes a lopsided grin. 

"Robin Yasen."

Mustang blinks in surprise. "Good work, sergeant.” He claps his hand together. “Now. What can we find out about this Robin Yasen, and friend Leo? Falman, ever heard of him?"

_“Robin Yasen? What, you getting a dog?”_

Mustang snaps his head up in surprise. Sure enough, Hughes is back. “What?” 

“You know the pet store on Stark? He owns it. Don’t look at me like that, you brought him up.” 

“Hughes, why in the world do you know this?” 

“Oh, we thought the store was involved in this racket that smuggles exotics across the border. Never found anything definite, though. I wasn’t on that investigation myself, but from what I heard, that’s a guy you wanna avoid if you can help it. Plenty of other pet stores in town.” He shrugs and sits on the edge of Mustang’s desk, clearly settling in for a chat, despite the look Mustang is giving him. Hughes subtly glances around the room, sliding a hand into his pocket. 

The mood in the office is almost unbearably tense. Mustang glaring daggers at him is to be unexpected, but Fuery is hunched over the radio, Havoc and Falman are fidgety, and Breda is-- damn, he’s here. Reading the paper with his feet on his desk. Hughes slides his hand out of his pocket with a frown. 

“Did you need something, Hughes?” Mustang snaps. 

“Still haven’t convinced Hawkeye to see reason, huh. Well, there’s still time for a grand romantic gesture! Which reminds me, you’ll never believe what my sweet baby Elicia did today. She wanted me to have a good day at work so she ordered me cookies from the bakery! Isn’t that absolutely adorable? What a thoughtful little angel! They sent them straight to my office, one dozen of the prettiest macarons you’ve ever laid eyes on!” he crooned. 

Breda’s eyes flick from the paper to Hughes, then quickly back to the paper. Hughes doesn’t notice. “But they must have gotten the order wrong. Normally green is pistachio, right? Well, the cookie part tasted like pistachio, but the inside, woof. The filling was downright FISHY.” 

Breda isn’t laughing, but his newspaper is trembling tellingly. 

“Took a real force of will to choke ‘em all down.” 

Fuery makes a strangled noise and leans further into the radio.

Mustang looks at Hughes in horror. “Are you telling me the cookies tasted like fish and _you kept eating them_ ?” 

“Of course!” He puffs out his chest. “Every last one. What kind of father do you take me for?” 

Breda hides his reddening face behind the shaking newspaper and bites the inside of his lip. 

“So,” Hughes plows ahead. “What are you going to do? Sounds like it’s going to take a lot more than a plate of cookies to win her back. Ohh, is that why you’re going to the pet store? Animals are tricky gifts, but that IS a grand gesture, and I suppose you know her better than anyone--” 

“HUGHES.” 

Hughes jumps off the desk and backs away, hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you to sulk. But if you wanna talk strategies for wooing your woman--” 

Mustang grabs a paperweight off his desk and hurls it past Hughes’ head. It cracks the wall on impact and thuds to the floor amid a shower of plaster. 

“OUT!” 

Hughes throws Mustang a mock salute and hurries out the door. “I’m just trying to help, you freak!” his muffled voice cries from the hallway. 

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Breda gasps and doubles over with laughter. And when Havoc sees the tears streaming down Breda’s face, he cracks up too. And then it infects Fuery and even Falman, and the whole office is cackling gleefully. 

“What! A! Dumbass!” Breda gasps between fits of laughter. “I can’t! Believe!...” 

Mustang slams his fist down on the table and shouts, “ENOUGH!” And his men guiltily try and reign it in. “This is no time for laughing. We’ve got work to do. Hughes has, in his usual idiotic way, given us some valuable information. Falman. What do you know about this pet store?”

“There’s only one pet store on Stark, sir: Paws And Claws, opened three years ago in the old Benson Building, in the space formerly occupied by East City Dry Goods.”

Mustang waits expectantly for Falman to continue. When he doesn’t, Mustang prompts, “And?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I know, sir.”

“What about this investigation Hughes mentioned?”

Falman shrugs apologetically. “Never heard of it. You could ask the lieutenant colonel.”

Mustang cringes. “The cost is too high. Besides, I think he’s already told us everything he’s going to. Some connection to exotic animal trafficking, but nothing they could prove.”

“So, what are we talking about here?” Havoc asks. “Kidnapping... cobras...?”

Falman answers him. “More likely selling banned animals, or selling animals without the appropriate permits. Amestris requires special permission to own falcons, peafowl, bats, cougars, otters, and snakes; and outright forbids ownership of primates, bears, mini-camels, piranhas,--”

Havoc holds up a hand to interrupt. "Hold on. Did you say ‘mini-camels’?" 

"The Xerxian dwarf camel,” Falman begins, in what his teammates refer to as his ‘encyclopedia voice,’ “also known as the mini-camel, typically grows to a height of 1.5 meters and weight of 200 kilos. Originally bred by a nomadic people in the eastern desert, they are illegal in Amestris due to their extremely aggressive temperaments. Underground gambling rings are rumored to persist wherein owners of mini-camels will pit them against each other. Or, occasionally, against a small human."

Havoc blinks. “Seriously.”

"When young, they are very cute," Falman adds. "And their milk is purported to taste like--"

"We get it, Falman," Mustang cuts him off. "So we now have reason to believe that Catalina’s date might be involved in illegal smuggling operations. And if Hawkeye’s d-- Hawkeye’s d-- Leo is his buddy, odds are he’s involved as well.” His jaw set. “Sounds like we were right to be suspicious.” Nods and murmurs of agreement all around (except for Breda, who is reading the newspaper as pointedly as one can read a newspaper). “Okay. Falman: go to this pet store and see what you can find out. Havoc: go with him."

“Yes sir!” They say in unison, scrambling to their feet. 

Fuery, who has been listening to the whole discussion with one earphone off, asks eagerly, “And me, sir?”

Mustang shakes his head. “You keep monitoring that line. No telling what else she might let slip.”

Fuery slumps slightly and slides the earphone back into place. “Yes, sir.”

Havoc and Falman hurry out the door. Breda calls after them, “Hey pick me up a peacock while you’re out, will ya?”

# # #

Hudson Crawford is a small, jovial man, and his haberdashery smells like pipe tobacco and old books. Normally Riza enjoys her visits; today she’s not in the mood. (This is, again, not the first time she’s been dispatched here on an urgent errand, though, again, all the previous errands had been legitimate.)

Mr. Crawford flashes her a wide smile. “Ah, Lieutenant Hawkeye!” And sashays around the counter to kiss her on both cheeks. “It’s been far too long.” He pulls back and notes the expression on her face. “Oh, what’s wrong, dear?”

Riza shakes her head and forces a smile. “Just a busy day. The colonel sent me here to get some replacement cufflinks. With the state seal, in silver.” 

“Ah, yes, of course.” He goes to a mahogany chest with a hundred little drawers in it and pulls one open. It’s full of cufflinks with all sorts of designs. He starts pawing through it for a matching pair. “And how are you and the colonel getting along these days?”

She answers curtly. “Perfectly professionally, as always.”

He shakes his head sadly. “Sorry to hear that. He better not keep you waiting too much longer.”

“It’s not like that!” Riza says, a shade too insistently. “In fact, I have a date tonight.”

“Oh do you?” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look very excited about it.”

She sighs. “That’s not--it’s that-- the colonel kicked me out of the office the instant he heard. He’s had me running all over the city on fake errands all day and I can’t fathom why.”

“Oh, he just doesn’t want you to see him cry, I’m sure. Here we go, these the ones?” She nods and he hops back behind the counter to wrap them up. Handing her a lovely brown bag, the haberdasher winks at her and says, “There you are. Now don’t let Roy’s jealousy get in the way, you get out there and have fun tonight!”

“He’s not-- never mind. Thank you,” she says, and heads back to the car.

# # #

The Benson Building sits on the corner of a bustling row of one- and two-story shopfronts, all brick and painted ironwork facades. Havoc and Falman, now dressed casually, assess it from an espresso bar across the street. Its facade is clean and cheery, a red awning flapping in the wind above a red door. Cats lounge in the wide display windows. A sandwich board on out front proclaims

PAWS AND CLAWS

Dogs - Cats - Reptiles

Food - Cages - Toys

Seven days a week!

Come in and find

Your new best friend 

“Looks like a pet shop to me,” Havoc says, swirling his cappuccino around in its tiny cup. “What are we supposed to do now? Try and buy a panda?” He shakes his head. “Breda could pull that off, maybe. I’m no spy.”

Falman considers. “Probably better to avoid interacting with the employees.”

“Yeah. If we get caught, Becca will skin me and mount the skin on her wall.”

“The building has a basement. Seems a good place to start.”

Havoc nods. “Yeah... yeah. Basements where you keep your secrets. You know where the entrance is?”

Falman points in the general direction of the building. “The city blueprints say there’s alley access.”

“Then let’s go.” Havoc drains the rest of his espresso in one gulp.

So they stroll across the street, into the alley behind the buildings. It’s dirty and crowded with the usual box trucks and dumpsters. At regular intervals, metal hatches are set into the ground; opening one would reveal a set of stairs leading to a building’s basement. But behind the pet store there is only a flat cement expanse. Well, there’s a dumpster and some smaller trash bins. But definitely no basement hatch.

“What the hell?” Havoc grumbles. “Where’d it go?” He does not, of course, question Falman’s memory of the blueprints.

“-- oh.” He runs the toe of his shoe along a faint seam in the concrete.

“Looks like they sealed it up,” Falman says. “Very suspicious.”

“Agreed. I’d bet real money they’re hiding something. Too bad the chief’s not here, he could just transmute it open. Is there another way in?”

“Through the back of the store, unless they’ve blocked that up too. There might be a hidden entrance...” Falman says, eyes darting around the alleyway.

“...like, through a fake dumpster, suspiciously set against the wall.” Havoc lifts the lid and wrinkles his nose. “Nevermind, it’s full of trash. No wait--” he ducks to look under the lip, to see what his fingers had just brushed against. “AHA.” He flips a hidden switch.

A panel on the side of the dumpster swings open to reveal a ladder, leading down into the dark. Havoc wastes no time in clambering in.

“I hope nobody’s home,” Falman says, following after him. It’s a short descent into a dirt-floored cave. The sunlight filtering in through the secret panel is just enough for Havoc to find and pull the cord on the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Falman climbs back up the ladder to close the panel.

“God,” Havoc complains quietly, “it smells worse than the dumpster! What the hell...” and as their eyes adjust to the dim lit, he says it again, differently: “WHAT THE HELL.”

Cages completely line the walls of the small room. Cages full of grunting, spitting, pawing...

“Mini-camels, sure enough.” Falman says, just as quietly. He crouches down to get a better look at one. It makes a distressingly loud braying noise and headbutts the cage. Falman scrambles back a foot. 

“Woah, sorry there... ‘Chompers’,” he reads the name off a tag on the door. Reading the other tags: “Spitzy. Sand Rocket. Hoofshank. Michelle. Hi Michelle!” 

Michelle spits at him. 

“So this is definitely illegal,” Havoc says, pacing the room without getting too close to any cage.

“Definitely,” Falman agrees. “Some of them look pretty beaten up. Must be a fighting ring in town.” And then he sneezes, loud enough to cause Chompers to start and hit its head on the cage. It brays angrily. Falman sneezes again, this time taking pains to muffle it.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he apologized, rubbing his eyes. “Seems like I’m-- _ACHOOOO!_ \-- allergic to camels.”

Havoc gives him a pitying look. “Okay, well, I think we’ve found enough to satisfy the colonel. These guys are absolutely not boyfriend material. Let’s get-- hey, what’s this?” 

He kicks at a pull ring at his feet, half-buried in the ground. Pulling on it lifts an attached trapdoor, shedding dirt as it rises. Havoc raises his eyebrows and pulls it all the way open.

“Pretty keen observation skills there, lieutenant!” Falman cheers. Unfortunately, neither of them had observed the “deactivate alarm” switch hidden under the second rung of the entrance ladder. Its grace period silently started ticking down.

“If level 1 is camels, what’s on level 2?” Havoc asks rhetorically, peering into the hatch. It was much smaller, really more a crawl space than a sub-basement. And it was packed full. Not with animals, though.

“Holy--” Havoc whistles. “Falman, look at this!”

Crates, stamped in Aerugonian. Munitions crates. If there was any question (which there wasn’t, because what in the world would you disguise by hiding it in a munitions crate??), one partially-opened crate sits near the door; it’s full to the brim with hand grenades.

“Looks like-- _ACHOOO!_ \--animals aren’t the only thing they’re trafficking.”

Havoc exhales heavily. “Boy, Becca, you sure know how to pick em. Let’s get out of here.” He shuts the trapdoor and recovers it in dirt.

The countdown reaches zero. A bell chimes. 

Falman sneezes again, which somewhat distracted from the sound of eight cage doors squeaking open. But then came the cacophony of eight mini-camels running and hissing and braying their way into the room. Some of them apparently had rivals in the crowd, and immediately set upon each other; but some had eyes only for the intruders.

Havoc curses and dives for the ladder. “Let’s go, let’s g-- AAAH! MOTHER--” he stumbles to his knees as a camel sinks its teeth into the meat of his calf. Havoc bashes the camel’s skull with his fist repeatedly until it finally lets go. Falman is sneezing continually now, eyes watering so badly he’s groping blindly toward the ladder. Michelle kicks him in the back and he goes sprawling in the dirt. Havoc kicks back at it and the camel dances out of reach before surging forward again. Havoc leaps at it from behind, getting an arm around its neck, trying his best to guess at how to put a camel in a chokehold. By the time Falman staggers to his feet, Havoc’s figured it out, and the camel sags, unconscious, to the ground. They make a break for it then, fleeing up the ladder--one camel rips a bite out of Falman’s shirt-- and finally collapsing onto the alley pavement and shutting the dumpster panel behind them. They lay there panting for a few seconds.

It went without saying that they could not STAY collapsed and panting on the concrete, because the owners of the camels were doubtless on their way to check on the racket. So they again stagger to their feet and round the corner, stumbling down half a block to a public drinking fountain. Havoc rolls up his pant leg and washes the bite as best he can. Falman shakes out his jacket, brushes the dirt off his chest, and splashes water on his face until the sneezes subside.

“Looks like she didn’t get me that bad,” Havoc says, twisting around to better inspect his calf. “I’ve had worse from girlfriends!” He rolls his pant leg back down. No visible bloodstains; it’s his lucky day. “How are you?”

Falman straightens. His eyes are red and puffy, like he’s been crying. “Fine, fine sir. Just a little bruised.”

Havoc smiles. “Good. Whaddaya say we take a peek inside while they’re distracted? I wanna see what this Robin guy looks like.”

Falman raises his eyebrows. “You think that’s wise?” It’s the politest way you can say _are you out of your mind?_ to a superior officer.

“It’s the last thing they’d expect. So long as we don’t LOOK like we were just camel-wrestling--” -- he pulls a now-crumpled box from his jacket pocket and pokes through it for an intact cigarette. Finding a survivor, he lights it and takes a slow pull. “We’ll be fine.” He straightens Falman’s jacket collar and pats him on the chest. “Come on.”

Falman nods hesitantly. “Yes sir.”

A bell tinkles as they enter the store. The animals seem unsettled, whining and pawing at their cages, but the man behind the counter--all lean muscle and silver pompadour--seems unruffled. He’s clearly engrossed in his telephone conversation, giving the soldiers a languid wave in greeting. Havoc watches him through his periphery while pretending to examine an iguana.

“You ARE blushing,” pompadour says, voice dripping with flirtation. “I can hear it in your voice! Nope, I’ll never tell, you’ll just have to guess.”

Falman grimaces. “Think that’s him? Talking to Lieutenant Catalina?”

Havoc rolls his eyes. “It’s gotta be.”

“Sorry, darling, one sec--” pompadour pulls the phone away from his ear and raises his voice. “Hey buddy, sorry, you can’t smoke in here, it’s bad for the animals. What?” Back into the phone. “Yeah, actually. How’d you know?” The playfulness has vanished from his voice.

Havoc and Falman look at each other in wide-eyed panic.

“No, there’s one mo-- no, no, this one’s tall too, with-- yeah. Yeah, that’s him alright. What’s going on, Becca?”

Havoc and Falman speed-walk to the exit, Havoc shouting a breathless “Thanksbye!” as the bell tinkled behind them. As soon as they clear the shopfront windows, they sprint for the car. Somehow, no one followes them.

“In retrospect,” Havoc says, eyes continually flicking to the rearview mirror as he drives away, “we probably shouldn’t have gone inside.”

# # #

Riza stares at the train. If this was a staring contest, the train was winning. It hasn’t moved an inch in at least fifteen minutes. Traffic had quickly piled up behind her and she was long past completely boxed in. Surely it would move soon. Surely.

A horn blast sounds from off in the distance, and the train begins to move, at first imperceptibly, but then, yes, yes, it _was_ moving, ever so slowly--backward. The train rolls backward a few car lengths and comes to a complete stop again.

This is just a coincidence, right? There’s no way he could have orchestrated this.

Right?

Riza sighs and turns on the radio. At least the weather is nice.

# # #

Catalina stomps into Mustang’s office and marches straight up to his desk.

“ROY MUSTANG, I swear to GOD!”

Mustang meets her gaze almost defiantly.

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?” The emphasis on her rank is subtle, but she doesn’t miss it.

“Yeah. You can help me not go to jail for murdering a colonel in the Amestrian military. I don’t know how the hell you found out about Robin, but I need you to back. The fuck. Off.” 

Fuery slides low in his seat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mustang responds calmly.

It only makes Catalina angrier. “Oh REALLY. Then it’s pure COINCIDENCE that two men matching the description of the TWO MEN CURRENTLY NOT IN THIS OFFICE were just caught HARASSING MY DATE!”

A scowl flits across Mustang’s face before he can stop it. He shrugs. “Coincidences happen all the time.”

“I need you to stay out of this. Seriously. Do not get involved. Do NOT mess this up for me.”

Mustang frowns. “Catalina, you don’t know--” he begins, only to be interrupted by the door swinging open to admit Havoc and Falman, still in civilian clothes. Catalina spins on her heel and points a finger like a rifle at Havoc. 

“YOU.”

Falman takes a step away from Havoc. Havoc laughs sheepishly and says, “Hey, Bec--Rebecca.”

“Don’t,” she growls. “Don’t you say another fucking word to me.”

Turning to address the office at large, she grumbles “I knew, I KNEW you idiots couldn’t be trusted with this information. I told her not to say anything. I swear to god if you ruin this date-- Breda, what the fuck are you doing?”

Breda looks up from the mess on his desk. “Papier-mâché.”

She stares at him.

“Unrelated to the rest of this clown show, in which I have absolutely no part,” he explains, dipping a strip of newspaper into a bowl of paste.

“...I’m going to leave before I have an aneurysm,” Catalina declares. “Breda, talk some sense into these idiots. The rest of you idiots, this is your last warning. If I see you again today, so help me,...”

“Catalina, wait! You’ve got to call it off! Your date is potentially--” Mustang tries, but she just throws a middle finger over her shoulder as she slams the door behind her.

Mustang turns, sternly, to Havoc and Falman. “So you got caught, did you?” 

They hang their heads in shame. 

“Only a little,” Havoc mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And now Catalina’s not going to listen to anything we have to say. Her date could be a wanted serial killer and she’d still go, just to spite us.” Mustang sighs heavily. “Fortunately, we still have a chance; Hawkeye is far more rational. What did you find out?”

“It’s worse than we thought, chief.” Havoc says. “They’ve definitely got contraband. And not just--” wincing-- “mini-camels. Which are no joke by the way. We found a large cache of Aerugonian munitions.”

Mustang’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding. And they just let you walk out of there?”

“No sir, I can confirm it is the truth,” Falman agrees.

“I said they only caught us a LITTLE,” Havoc reminds him. “He saw us in the store, but he doesn’t know we found the cache.”

Mustang nods. “Good work, both of you. Lieutenant Breda.”

Breda looks up from his papier-mache sculpture (which appeared to be coalescing into a life-size seated likeness of himself) in surprise. “Yeah?”

“You heard that, right? So now you understand the true severity of the situation. Are you really going to continue to sit there and make an ass of yourself? Or are you going to do the right thing?”

Breda gives him a pained look. “Is ‘the right thing’ taking this intel straight to Hughes and letting the proper channels handle it?”

Mustang slaps the desk with his palm. “There’s no TIME for that, man! I’ll-- tell him tomorrow. But Hawkeye is in trouble TONIGHT!”

“Ok. Setting aside how that makes no sense, you’re really gonna tell Hawkeye about what you learned while spying on her date?”

“Technically,” Falman amends, “we spied on Catalina’s date.” 

Mustang shakes his head. “No, obviously, we can’t tell her either.”

“So what damn fool thing are you gonna do instead?” 

Mustang rakes his eyes over the rest of his team. They stare back eagerly, awaiting orders.

“We’re staking out her date.”

Breda groans.

“Maybe,” Mustang continues, “everything is fine, and they just go on a normal date. Great. I’ll tell Hughes in the morning and then we have nothing else to worry about. But if something goes wrong...” his eyes darken. “We’ll be there to stop it. So are you in?”

Breda says, “Absolutely not.” And tears another strip of newspaper.

“What? How can you say that?? How can you just--”

“Oh I’ll grant you, this _looks_ bad. But you’re working off a lot of very large assumptions. And when it comes to Hawkeye, one, she can take care of herself, and two, you can’t be trusted to make rational decisions. If anything goes wrong tonight, it’s probably going to be because of something _you_ do. And from that look on your face, nothing I say will convince you of that fact. So no. I want no part of this. Besides, I’ve got to finish Paper Breda before I can leave, or else Hughes will be able to tell at a glance that I’m gone.”

Mustang replies coldly, “If you’re wrong, and something happens to her tonight, you will regret every one of those words.”

Breda looks at him and nods thoughtfully. “That’s true, sir.” And he dips some newspaper into the paste.

Mustang throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Her blood is on your head. Now, for the rest of you, my _good and loyal_ men. Fuery: bug Hawkeye’s purse. Falman: secure a surveillance van, one they won’t recognize. Havoc: you’ll be our eyes, dress to not be seen. Oh, and change, the both of you; you smell like a zoo.”

Fuery raises a hand hesitantly. “Uh, Sir? What purse? Didn’t she take it with her?”

“Oh, no, she’s got a different one for tonight.”

Havoc raises his eyebrows. “How do you know--?”

But Mustang has already unzipped her bag and started pawing through her clothes. The other men turn away embarrassedly--never go through a lady’s bag!--but after only a moment he holds up a small black handbag.

“See?” He chucks it at Fuery, who catches it awkwardly and begins digging through his desk for tools.

Falman gets on the phone, Havoc leaves the room. Some tense minutes pass in silence before the door bangs open again. (Doesn’t anyone around here know how to open a door gently?) Fuery hastily shoves Hawkeye’s purse and the half-assembled bug into a desk drawer, but it’s just Hughes again, so he just as hastily pulls everything back out. Ah, but--this is not the same Hughes from earlier today, the typical, jovial one. No, this Hughes is taught as a wire, cheeks flushed with rage. He charges right up to Breda’s desk, holding an empty cookie platter, and hurls it to the ground at Breda’s feet. Being ceramic, it shatters to pieces. 

“I believe. This. Is yours,” he growls.

A beat passes. Then Breda breaks just like the tray. He starts cackling with delight and can’t stop. Tears stream down his face and he pounds on the desk.

“I called home to thank Elicia for the cookies! And do you know what she says?”

Breda doubles over, wheezing. “You! Called!...”

“She said, ‘Daddy I didn’t send you cookies.’ I ate One. Dozen. FISH PASTE MACARONS because you were depraved enough to exploit a father’s love for his daughter!”

Some snickers from the peanut gallery, but Hughes doesn’t look away. His vengeful stare only makes Breda laugh harder. Hughes leans in and jabs a finger into Breda’s chest to underscore his point:

“You’re going to regret that, Lieutenant. Nobody takes my precious Elicia’s name in vain.” 

Hughes straightens up and points his accusing finger around the room, just in case anybody else was getting any funny ideas. “NOBODY!” And then he storms out. The door slammed shut behind him.

It takes a minute for Breda to catch his breath. When he finally does, he notes, “He didn’t even notice the dummy.”

Fuery jumps up with Hawkeye’s purse. “Finished!” and hurries over to stuff it back into her duffel bag. Good thing too, because he’s barely made it back to his station before the door opens (calmly, for once) to admit one first lieutenant. 

# # #

Riza enters the office wearily and looks around. Havoc and Falman are missing. Fuery gives her an absolutely guilty smile and wave. Breda is... making a sculpture at his desk? And Roy... _just doesn’t want you to see him cry._ Roy is wearing his usual dispassionate mask, but there’s cracks in it. He looks tense. She can’t even guess at what they’ve been up to in her absence and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know.

She drops the cufflinks onto Roy’s desk. “Your cufflinks, sir,” she says. “I trust these will do?”

He nods, curtly. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He does not reach for them. They stare at each other in silence for a full five seconds.

“Is there,” she asks pointedly enough to make the whole office wince, “anything else you need from me, sir?”

And suddenly he leaps from his seat and grabs her wrist. “Hawkeye, you can’t go tonight! You’ve got to cancel!”

She jerks her wrist free. “And why exactly is that, sir?”

He looks at her imploringly. “Be- because-- because--”

“Is there some work-related function I need to perform tonight?”

Her voice is cold as ice. But Roy lights up at the suggestion.

“Wh-- why yes, now that you mention it! There are several reports that didn’t get verified today, since you were out. I need you to stay and finish them!”

“Oh, I’ll handle those, boss,” Breda interjects. “Hawkeye doesn’t need to stay.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Riza says, over Roy’s impotent sputtering. “Well then. Seeing as how it is the end of the day, I’m going to go get ready.”

Mustang presses his lips together tightly and gives his head the smallest nod.

“Then. Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”

A chorus of less-than-cheery goodbyes follows her out of the room.

# # #

In the bathroom, Rebecca pauses in applying her mascara to look over at Riza. “Hey. One favor. Promise me you won’t tell them we’re in the military.”

Riza looks over sharply, nearly jabbing herself in the neck with an earring post. “What? Why?”

“Oh, you know, guys think it’s threatening. I don’t want to scare them off. Just say you’re a secretary. That’s not entirely a lie.”

Riza looks offended. “A secretary! Becca, really--”

“And I’m a secretary too. Come on Riza, please, I really like this guy! I’ll tell him, you know, later. If things work out. And you never have to see Leo again after tonight, if you don’t want to. It was the only way Robin would agree to go out.”

Riza sighs, turning back to the mirror. “I don’t know why I’m helping you. You should find a guy who likes you for who you are.”

Rebecca scowls, despite the negative effects this has on the application of her lipstick. “Well if you know one, feel free to give him my number. In the meantime, Robin is cute and rich and available.” 

# # #

Clover sits in the middle of a grungy row of nondescript buildings, its tattered green awning a relative high point along the line of crumbling brick facades and papered-over windows. A muscular man chain-smokes near the door, occasionally opening it for newcomers. 

Around the corner sits an equally grungy and nondescript box truck, engine off, cab empty. But its container holds, rather than the advertised mattresses, three tense soldiers and a mess of radio equipment. A fourth is making his way to a rooftop across the street, armed with a pair of binoculars. Well, ok, also guns. But mostly binoculars.

_“I’m ready,”_ Havoc’s voice crackles over the radio. Mustang grabs the handset as Fuery adjusts some wires.

“See anything yet?”

_“No, noth-- wait, Here they come. DAMN that’s a short skirt.”_

Mustang’s grip on the handset tightens. “More HELPFUL descriptions, please, lieutenant.” 

Meanwhile the transmitter in Hawkeye’s bag crackles to life, filling the truck with soft feminine laughter. 

Mustang grips the handset so tightly a little spark pops off, floating harmlessly through the air before fading out.

_“Oh yeah, they’re Becca’s type alright,”_ Havoc was saying. _“Both tall--Hawkeye’s is a little taller--fit, Hawkeye’s has brown hair, Becca’s is silver, definitely the guy from the pet shop, nice suits--REALLY nice suits--leading them in by the elbows. Classy bastards. From their gait, I’d bet real money they’re both carrying at the hip. Hey, they’re at the bouncer.”_

_“Robin Yasen,”_ a warm baritone voice announces through the second receiver. A grunt of assent, shuffling, the creak of a door, the din of nightlife. 

“Are we going to be able to hear anything over all that noise?” 

Fuery cringes at the ire in Mustang’s voice. “I hope so, sir. But technology has its limits.” He adjusts some knobs and the background noise fades a bit.

_“Okay, they’re inside,”_ Havoc confirms. _“I’m blind until they come back out.”_

“Stay sharp, Havoc,” Mustang says. “We have no idea what their plans are.” 

# # #

It’s well after hours, but Lieutenant Breda is still at his desk; just him in the middle of an empty office. (Though Paper Breda watches him from Havoc’s chair.) Now that the circus has left town, he can finally get some actual work done. 

When the door slams open, the hardest it’s slammed all day, hard enough to bang against the wall, Breda fully expects to see Hughes, come to exact his revenge at last, but--no. Even worse. It’s the child alchemist and his haunted suit of armor. Breda groans inwardly.

Edward’s anger gives way to surprise for an instant as he looks around the empty office, but only for an instant. "Where is he?" The brat demands. "Where's that damn colonel?"

"Out," Breda says flatly. “You want me to take a message?” 

"This is some bullshit!" Ed shouts in Breda’s face. "He called me in all the way from Brown Mesa and he's NOT HERE? I don't have time to be jerked around like this! What the FUCK, Breda? Where is he?"

"Brother!" Pleads Alphonse, pulling Edward back to a more polite distance. Breda takes a moment before answering. The kid has almost unimaginable destructive capabilities--and was technically the ranking officer between them. The goal here was to get him out of the room before he remembered either of those facts.

"It’s not like he did this on purpose," Breda says, unable to resist rolling his eyes. "Obviously Mustang was expecting to be here when he sent for you, but something came up. Come back tomorrow."

"Something...?" The brat’s eyes narrow in suspicion. "Hey. Why aren't you with him? What's going on?"

“Is the colonel in danger?” Alphonse adds worriedly.

"It’s nothing that concerns you, chief," Breda snaps. "Now go. I got work to do.”

“You’re hiding something,” Ed concludes. “Tell us!”

And Breda could not resist replying, “I would, but this mission has a minimum height requirement."

“Why you--”

The alchemist screams and twisted out of his brother’s grasp, snarling a torrent of the curses that only a teenage boy can generate, clapping his hands together in the prelude to disaster, and Breda has just enough time to think _well, what did I expect_ when--

_“Yo, Elrics! Didn’t expect you boys to be in town!”_

Hughes’ voice booms from the doorway. Edward turns in surprise, lowering his arms. “Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, working a case out here this week, you know how it is. It’s been ages, you’ll have to catch me up on how things are going. And I’ve got Elicia’s latest photo shoot right here in my pocket! Have you had dinner yet? I’m starving!” And he grabs Ed by his flaming red collar and manhandles him toward the exit, pausing only to mouth at Breda: you owe me.

No doubt Hughes had come down to see if Breda was gone. But, astute man that he was, saw the situation and defused it. Breda did indeed owe him. He nods once and holds up the hand sign for “truce”. No pranking for the rest of the evening. Just as well. He does actually have work to do.

“Unlike everyone else in this outfit,” he grouses at his paperwork.

# # #

Mustang paces stiffly up and down the cramped container. Falman’s hands twist and untwist around themselves, and Fuery obsessively adjusts knobs and dials.

_“So,”_ Catalina is saying in warm and inviting tones, _“What do classy gents like you do for fun?”_

_“Well, work keeps me pretty busy,”_ her date replies. _“But you saw the car--”_

_“Ooh, yeah! It’s gorgeous.”_

_“Not nearly as gorgeous as you, darling.”_

Catalina giggles, and Havoc makes a noise that, over the radio, sounds like ‘hurk’. _“Come on Becca!”_ He pleads to the air. _“You know better than to fall for this.”_

Mustang snorts. “A less true sentence has never been uttered.”

_“What about you, Leo?”_ asks Hawkeye, politely indifferent.

_“Oh, I’m not much a mechanic,”_ he demurs. _“I try and make time for rock climbing, though. And range practice, whenever I can.”_

_“Range, as in, the gun range?”_ Hawkeye’s voice suddenly holds much more interest.

“Dammit,” Mustang mutters. 

_“I hope that’s not too off-putting,”_ Hawkeye’s date says apologetically.

_“Oh, not at all! I’m a pretty good shot myself.”_

_“Really, a pretty little lady like you? Where’d you learn to shoot a gun?”_ Leo’s voice takes on an edge of suspicion.

_“She grew up in the country,”_ Catalina interjects. _“It’s a matter of survival out there, you know, wild boar or whatever. Riza, Remember how completely horrified you were when I told you I’d never held a gun before? Practically dragged me off to the range, ha ha ha!”_

_“Those boar are a real problem,”_ Catalina’s date agrees.

“So what do you like to shoot?” Hawkeye asks Leo.

“Amestrian soldiers like you!” Mustang yells at the radio. He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “Come on Hawkeye, you know better than to fall for this.”

Havoc snorts.

A burst of static suddenly erupts from the speaker, and the quartet’s voices are replaced by the idle chatter of two gruff men.

_“My money’s on Spitzy.”_

_“Your money’s always on Spitzy. Live a little.”_

_“Well, Spitzy ain’t lost yet, has she?”_

_“Well, she’s up against Hoofshank tonight.”_

Mustang scowls. “What the hell is that?” 

Fuery shrugs apologetically. “Must be picking up the table next over. Maybe she kicked her bag.”

“Well I don’t care about those idiots. Fix the signal.”

Fuery looks over his shoulder in exasperation, but fortunately Falman speaks up before he can say anything. “Sptizy and Hoofshank were two of the mini-camels we saw at the pet store.”

Mustang turns to Falman. “What? You’re sure?”

That was, of course, rhetorical. Falman never spoke unless he was sure, which Mustang knew full well. But he responds anyway, “Yes sir. Spitzy was the one that bit Havoc.”

Mustang’s eyes narrow. “So the boys are having a camel fight tonight, are they? And I’m sure that’s just the surface. No telling what kinds of other depraved things might be going on at the same time.”

Falman says, “Given the inventory we saw, it wouldn’t be surprising if an arms deal went down during the fight.”

Fuery counters, “But these guys are on a date. They’re busy. Even if it’s their camels, they’re probably not going to go. I mean, Catalina wouldn’t agree to that kind of thing... would she? If they got caught, she’d be discharged for sure.”

Havoc’s disembodied voice adds, _“Yeah, there’s no way. I’d bet a million cens she has no idea.”_

Mustang nods. “Well. What we know for sure is that our ladies are in a very dangerous situation. Let’s keep listening. Did you fix the signal?”

Fuery, facing away from Mustang, indulges in a chance to safely roll his eyes. The transmitter does seem to be picking up the right table again, thankfully. “Yes sir. I think the lieutenants went to the WC, it’s just the guys talking now.” 

_“Where did you find these gals again?”_

_“Becca came to the store, looking for a gift for a friend with a dog. There was,”_ with a leer in his voice thick as syrup, _“Instant chemistry.”_

_“Ugh, what a creep!”_ Havoc grumbles through the radio. _“Callin her Becca on the first date.”_

_“What do you think of Riza?”_ Robin continues. Mustang stops pacing.

_“Oh, she’s hot alright. I thought for sure you were gonna stick me with a dog! You think she likes me? She’s kinda playing hard to get.”_

Mustang exhales.

_“The night is young, my friend.”_ The thock of a back clap. _“And I know you have ways of being... persuasive.”_

Mustang’s eyebrow twitches.

_“But,”_ Robin continues, “ _As regards our primary objective. What do you THINK? Can I trust her? Am I being blinded by her beauty? I need your objective judgment here.”_

_“Oh,”_ Leo replies, understanding dawning. _“Ohhh, right. Yeah, I think you’re safe with this one. She’s just a hot secretary looking for an improvement in her quality of life. You still suspicious?”_

_“Call me a cynic, but it just seems too good to be true. Maybe I finally caught a break, eh?”_

Havoc’s speaker crackles with a low guttural fricative. 

_“If you’re asking my permission to take it to the next level,”_ Leo says, _“Granted.”_

_“Thank you. I think it’s time to see how she feels about ‘animals’.”_

_“Hey shut up, here they come!”_

Sounds of chairs scraping. 

_“So, where were we?”_ Catalina’s voice came through, clear and lascivious. 

_“Well my darling, Leo and I were just talking. We’re not ready for the night to end. And it just so happens we’ve got tickets to a very special show after this.”_

The men in the van look at each other.

“The camels!” Falman exclaims unnecessarily.

_“What kind of show?”_ Asks Hawkeye, perfectly innocently. _“And how late does it run? We’ve got work in the morn--ow! Becca!”_

_“It’s something you won’t see anywhere else,”_ Leo says. _“That I can guarantee. Really fucking exciting. Oh shit, pardon my language. Oh! Dammit! Ha, you’ve got me all flustered now.”_

Riza laughs at this, a light tittering laugh that causes Fuery and Falman to immediately avoid making eye contact with Mustang.

_“I’m hooked,”_ Catalina says, enthusiastically. _“Don’t say anything else. I love surprises.”_

_“Perfect,”_ Her date purrs. _“And, it just so happens, the venue is right downstairs. What do you say we take our dessert to go?”_

_“We’d love to,”_ Catalina says decisively.

_“Miss Becca, you’ve just made my night. Waiter!”_ Robin calls.

Mustang’s eyes go wide and he leaps for the door. “Move in! Everyone, move in, now!”

_“Roger,”_ says Havoc’s voice on the radio. Falman and Fuery scramble to follow Mustang as he slams the rolling door up, jumps out of the truck, and races for the restaurant.

The walrus of a man at the door stands up languidly, holding a hand up. “Slow down, bub. Name?”

“Flame Alchemist Colonel Roy Mustang. Stand aSIDE!” Mustang punctuates his move-aside gesture with a snap that sends a tongue of fire to land immediately at the man’s feet. 

The walrus casually pulls a fat pistol from his belt. “You’re not on the list, Flame Alchemist Colonel Roy Mustang. I stand aside, I lose my job.” A sudden quiet _FWOONK_ drops the bouncer to the ground, clutching his left buttcheek. The now-empty space where he stood reveals Havoc, jogging up the block from behind, looking extremely proud of himself. 

“Aaagh! You--you shot me in the ass!” The bouncer swears creatively at them as Mustang throws the door open and they swarm in.

The scene inside the restaurant is much classier than its entrance would suggest. Dim ambient lighting, damask wallpaper, red velvet dining chairs, a sparkling mahogany bar. Every patron is dressed for a night at the opera. A pianist plays a baby grand from a dais in the middle of the room. 

Hawkeye and Catalina have their backs to the door, but they turn in unison at the looks on their dates’ faces.

Mustang raises his hand and shouts, “Get away from them, lieutenant!”

At the same time, Catalina, standing and shouting, “Roy Mustang don’t you dare--”

And Hawkeye, utterly bewildered, “Colonel, what--?”

_SNAP._

A spark crackles across the room, erupting in the air between the women and their dates. It was intended to provide cover while the women flee to the safety of Team Mustang. It was not at all supposed to ignite the cocktails on their table, to say nothing of the two tables preceding it, but _CRACK, FWOOSH,_ the room fills with the sound of martini glasses shattering from the heat as they launch gouts of flame halfway to the ceiling. Patrons scream. One lady throws her flaming hat on the ground, ineffectually beating at it with her gloves. 

The dates leap backward, drawing pistols even as they turn over their table for cover. Other patrons follow suit all across the restaurant; a few make a mad dash for the back door. The bartender ducks down and reappears with a shotgun. The pianist produces a shotgun from the underside of the piano. Havoc upends a vacated table and ducks between it and the wall, Mustang close behind him; Falman and Fuery do the same across the room. Mustang lays down a firewall as soon as Hawkeye and Catalina cross its line.

The sprinkler system kicks on just as the bullets start flying.

Hawkeye dives for Falman and Fuery, pistol already in hand. Catalina crosses the room to join Mustang, where he is angrily stripping off his gloves and reaching for his gun. During the moment when he’s unarmed, she punches him in the arm before retrieving her own pistol from her purse, yelling above the din,

“Have you lost your last remaining brain cell? What the HELL Roy?” She pops up, squeezes off a round, ducks again, in syncopated rhythm with Havoc. A shout and a thump. Mustang rubs his arm and shouts back,

“I’m your superior officer you know! I could have you--” 

“Oh, shut UP Roy! SHUT UP! I can’t believe you--” hastily ducking back down. Mustang pops up and takes a shot. 

“We’re here to save your ass! You could show a little gratitude!”

“Save my--? SAVE MY--” She laughs bitterly. 

“Catalina, those men are ARMS DEALERS!” Mustang takes aim at the bartender. The bartender dodges and a bottle of cheap whiskey takes the bullet instead, spraying highly flammable droplets all across the bar.

“Yeah, I FUCKING KNOW, ROY!” She wings the pianist just as he’s about to get a shot off.

“You know?” Mustang and Havoc chorus.

“Of course I know! Why do you THINK. I. AM. HERE?!”

The men stare at her, dumbfounded. Catalina reloads. 

Across the way, Falman and Fuery are staring dumbfounded at Hawkeye.

“This was for intel all along?” Falman gasps. She shrugs.

“I didn’t know either.” Calmly laying down a few rounds of suppressive fire in the direction of her date.

“This was-- this was an operation?” Mustang says.

“Yes, idiot,” Catalina spits. _POP. THUD._ “Keyword WAS. UGH, GOD, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I THOUGHT, silly me, I THOUGHT,” _POP_ , _SCREAM,_ ”that if Riza told you she was gonna try and get on the inside with these guys, you'd freak out and get all weirdly overprotective, but if it was just a date...”

From the other side of the restaurant, Robin dares to peek over the table. “Becca, You’re MILITARY? How could you?! I really thought we had something!” One of Hawkeye’s bullets clips his left ear; one Catalina’s clips his right ear. He drops with a howl.

“You don’t get to call me Becca anymore!” 

Mustang is still reeling. “Wh-why didn’t you tell Hawkeye, though?”

“PLAUSIBLE.” _POP_ . “FUCKING.” _POP. THUD._ “DENIABILITY, ROY! My god, how did you ever make colonel?”

The downpour from the sprinklers becomes a drizzle, then stops entirely. Mustang grins and reaches into his jacket, but a thunderous commotion from the kitchen makes him hesitate. “What’s th--”

“CAMELS!” Falman shouts in terror, pointing as the tiny herd stampedes into the dining room. Eight of them surge forward, foaming at the mouth, making unholy braying noises, clearly ready to destroy the first human they run into. 

Mustang tugs a glove on and lays down another firewall. The camels pull up short, snorting and bucking and spitting in rage. A stray bullet explodes another liquor bottle and the tiny droplets burst into flames. Some catch dry spots on the bar, and flames begin to lick up from the mahogany. The sprinkler system trips again, and Robin and Leo take this moment to jump up and sprint for the kitchen.

“Call me if you change your mind!” Robin yells as the door swings shut behind him and the camels surge forward.

Havoc jumps at the nearest camel. It takes some maneuvering to get behind it, but once he does, the chokehold is almost effortless. After a few seconds of flailing, the camel’s knees buckle and it sinks to ground. Falman, seeing this, shakes off his terror and leaps to do likewise. 

When the sprinkler system cuts off again, Mustang and his team are alone in the room, surrounded on all sides by waterlogged destruction. Eight unconscious mini-camels rest at their feet. 

Mustang surveys the scene and sighs. Robin and Leo are long gone. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before they wake up,” he says.

# # #

Breda catches sight of Havoc walking up the steps ahead of him and hurries to catch up.

“Morning,” he says, holding out a bag of donuts. Havoc takes one wordlessly. He has dark circles under his eyes, his hair is uncombed, and his knuckles are all scraped up. A bruise blooms along his jawline. Breda raises an eyebrow. 

“So?” It’s all he has to say. 

Havoc scowls. “No. You don’t get the details. You’re just gonna say ‘I told you so.’” 

“Heh. Told you so.” Breda smirks an extremely self-satisfied smirk and pulls a donut from the bag. Havoc’s scowl deepens. They walk up the stairs, into the building, down the halls in silence, until they’ve almost reached the office.

“So,” Havoc finally says, “Did Hughes ever get you back?”

“Ha! You kidding? He never had a chance. Got stuck babysitting the Elrics, actually, punched out early. I stayed until they cleared out. Point: Breda.” 

They reach the office doors. Havoc pulls them open, and a huge grin spreads across his face.

“Point: Elric,” he corrects. Breda’s face does not fall so much as crash. He shoves around Havoc into the office, only to come to a screeching halt. 

In place of his desk, there now stands a large wooden sculpture. Of a hound of hell, complete with bared fangs and glowing red eyes, posed as if lunging for his throat. Riding the hound was a (taller-than-life-size) rendition of the Fullmetal Alchemist, gripping the beast with one hand and giving Breda the finger with another. He can see the remnants of paperwork in the fur, his stapler embedded in the jacket.

“HUGHES! WE HAD A TRUCE! HUUUUUUGHES!” 

# # #

Rebecca squints against the sparkling morning sun as she sips her apology tea. Riza takes a bite from her croissant as she watches the morning commuters stroll past. 

“So you’re really not mad at me for not telling you?” Rebecca ventures. 

“Of course not. Although it helps that I wasn’t interested in Leo,” she says with a smile. Then she sighs and turns back to the street. “I just wish...”

“That your boyfriend wasn’t a jealous, impulsive toddler-man?”

“Rebecca!” Her eyes flash angrily, more at the risk of being overheard than the actual insult. “Don’t say that, you know he’s not my boyfriend! Our relationship is completely professional!” And less angrily, “Whatever you think of him, he’s still your superior officer.”

“Listen, Riza.” Rebecca sets her tea down. “I respect your ability to make your own decisions. I’ve certainly made some questionable ones of my own. But your “completely professional colleague” _royally_ fucked me over last night. My team’s been watching this group for _weeks_ , trying to find a way to get on the inside... now you know they’re going to scatter like roaches. And they know me now. We’ll have to start over. I’m in no mood to be charitable.”

Riza frowns. “The colonel means well. He cares about people. A lot. So much so that, sometimes, the amount he cares will override all his better judgment. He needs someone to... help him stay on the right path.”

Rebecca’s scowl does not soften, but her words sound more thoughtful. “And none of those knuckleheads are very persuasive, are they?”

Riza smiles as she brings her tea to her lips. “I’m working on it.”


End file.
